A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

As the cedar of Lebanon, without conscious effort of its own, represents the property of timber; so did Solomon Jericho represent the property of Parliament. And cedar and man—we have it upon the faith of Mrs. Jericho—are noble presences to contemplate. What—observed that intellectual woman—what would the little birds of the air, the robin-redbreasts and all the family of finches, do—were there no cedars with hospitable boughs and twigs to house and roost them? And what would become of the poor and the weak, were there no Jerichos to protect and comfort them? Mr. Jericho was, doubtless, much delighted as he pondered the question.

It must be owned that the genius of money has a liking for fair play. Now and then, it takes pleasure in equity. If, at times, it brings trouble upon men, as men are too apt in their excess of sincerity to declare,—it must be allowed that the trouble it saves them is to the full as great as the perplexity it inflicts. In the old poetic time the same fairy that would lead men astray for the sake of the mischief; would, by way of recompense, churn the butter and trim up the house, while the household snored. Now, money is the prose fairy of our mechanical generation. If now and then it leads simpletons into a Fleet Ditch; on the other hand, as deftly as ever imp or brownie laboured, it works even for the slumbering. Solomon Jericho, by the labouring means of ten thousand pounds, became member for Toadsham. He ate, drank, and slept; and, without sense of the great change working in him by workman money, became a legislator. Even as the olden fairies churned butter, it may be stamping the lumps with their own elfin impress; so had ten thousand ministers silently transformed Jericho into a legislator, stamping him with M.P. There is no such Puck as the Puck of the Mint.

Solomon had paid the money for his seat; every farthing of the sum had been deposited in the hand of the Hon. Cesar Candituft, who, whilst he was ever congratulating the country upon the acquired patriotism of Jericho, could not, much as he tried, be insensible of the shrunken and still shrinking anatomy of the new legislator. “’Tis anxiety, my dear madam; no doubt, anxiety,” said Candituft, a little puzzled, to Mrs. Jericho.

“A nervous apprehensiveness,” said the wife. “He thinks too much of the responsibility. I tell him ’tis nothing; am continually assuring him that, with his property, he may expect every indulgence; nevertheless, it is plain, dear sir, that the thoughts of Parliament wear him to a shadow. But he’ll get the better of it: at least I hope—I must hope”—said the resigned woman—“that he’ll get the better of it. Without such hope, I should be forlorn indeed. For, I have other troubles, dear sir. That sweet, I mean, that foolish boy of mine”—

“A delightful study, madam; what I call a delicious study. It is so cheering, so sustaining to contemplate the generosity of youthful emotions, when the ardent heart beats towards the entire human race; that is to the whole family of man. Delightful!” and Candituft upturned his eyes.

Mrs. Jericho civilly acknowledged the general truth delivered by the philanthropist; nevertheless she felt a mother’s anxiety, a mother’s grief, that her boy Basil would select from the human family one particular individual as the depositary of an affection that, for a time at least, might be expended upon the world at large. Had matters remained as they were, the union of Basil and Bessy would have been at once natural and advantageous; but that Carraways should be turned into rags at the very time that Jericho was sublimated into money, rendered the idea of such a marriage quite preposterous. It was plain that Basil as the son of the wife of a man of boundless wealth, might marry whom he would; might, improving on the manner of the sultan, throw a wedding-ring at whomsoever he pleased. Therefore, to unite himself to the child of a pauper, was to fly in the face of fortune. It was wicked, presumptuous. Mrs. Jericho was not a superstitious woman; nevertheless, she could do no otherwise than tremble to think of it.

Some six weeks had passed since the festival at Jogtrot Lodge; and Mr. and Mrs. Jericho, with the two young ladies seated in their barouche, again travelled the road. The Hon. Mr. Candituft and Sir Arthur Hodmadod, all grace and goodness, rode on either side of the carriage.

“My dear Jericho, I do think this is the most lovely country! Quite an Eden;—is it not?” asked Mrs. Jericho; and the Man made of Money looked upon God’s glorious work, as though he stared at so much whity-brown paper. “Quite a Paradise!” Jericho grunted. “Don’t you recollect these beautiful swelling fields?”

“Like a green velvet bed,” cried Hodmadod. “That is, when I say a bed, I mean to be sure a—a bed in Paradise; of course. All beds green there, Candituft? I think they’re green, eh?”

“No doubt,” said Candituft. “Green with heartsease borders.”